


When in Orlais

by bubble_bones



Series: Ariwyn and Solas [3]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Dom Solas (Dragon Age), F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-22
Updated: 2020-10-22
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:40:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27152584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bubble_bones/pseuds/bubble_bones
Summary: Solas hums. She thinks it strange, that in such a pressing circumstance, he'd take leisurely time to contemplate his answer. Then, his eyes leave the hearth. Trail across the pretty patterns in the marble in the ground, to where her bare foot rests upon it. Upward, along the exposed skin of her calf - to her knee, where the other leg is crossed over. Even further then, dragging so slowly across her hips, her waist, her chest; the arch and dip of her collarbone, up along the curve of her throat. Finally, to her eyes.Somehow, she finds the urge to hide her own lips behind her hand as well, though for a differing reason. She's smiling. She knows exactly why he's come to see her, why he's brought this up. She's never seen him jealous before.
Relationships: Female Lavellan/Solas
Series: Ariwyn and Solas [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2007619
Comments: 5
Kudos: 36





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Solas visits Ariwyn after the first day of festivities at the Winter Palace. He claims to have concerns regarding a certain nobleman, but it quickly becomes apparent that the problem is less about the possibility of the man being an assassin sent to murder the Empress than she thought.  
> -  
> Aka a little series, set during the events of Wicked Eyes and Wicked Hearts. I wanted to practise writing smut and this happened. Can I pretend my hand slipped for 7000+ words?
> 
> NSFW, though I think that's a given? XD

━◦○◦━◦○◦━ ⋞ ⟨ ⏣ ⟩ ⋟━◦○◦━◦○◦━

"Perhaps we should have organised better lodgings, Inquisitor." 

Ariwyn waves a hand dismissively at her Ambassador, rolling her eyes. What a fuss she's causing over nothing. Truly, the chambers they're being escorted down are grander than anything she's ever had, including the luxurious quarters they'd set up for her in Skyhold. A home designed for nobility in the almost perfect centre of Val Royeaux, conspicuously guarded by Inquisition soldiers, just whilst celebrations continued at the Winter Palace. Their first night there had been slow; learning, watching, mapping out the climate, seeking their enemies. And despite how tired she feels, she has the energy to keep talking all night. There was something about that ballroom, the enthralling nature of the mystery and intrigue of the shimmering masks and secrets beneath. 

"Somewhere quieter, perhaps," Josephine continues, a worried look upon her face, "Out of the city proper? I fear you may lose sleep, Inquisitor, and we must be in peak condition in order to play the Game as well as any others in Celene's court."

"Please stop fretting, Josephine," Ariwyn laughs gently when they turn a corner; she catches a glimpse of the city outside a window cracked open, and longs to stop and stare. But the uptight Orlesian man guiding them seems to have no intention of doing so. "Where we are is perfect. You forget I've slept amongst animals. I think some plush Orlesian bedding is the least of my concerns at the moment." 

"I…" she begins again, but allows her sentence to fade out. "Well if you think it sufficient, Inquisitor, then it will be for the rest of us." 

"Here we are, mistresses," comes the call from their guide, who bows far too deeply at the waist to look comfortable, "The Lady Inquisitor's chambers - the master suite of this noble house." 

Ariwyn wants to groan, roll her eyes again, complain perhaps. She should not be given something like this, _again_. Certainly, most wouldn't complain about such nice treatment, but she doesn't want such things for her position and the power that comes with it alone. Alas, she offers Josephine a smile, and heads to the open door. 

"Goodnight, Josephine. And _try_ to get some sleep before sunrise, won't you?" 

The Ambassador offers her a coy smile. "I will try, Inquisitor." she says, and heads off after the guide. 

She lets out a breath she didn't know she was holding. It feels as if she's been holding it in all evening, from the second the Inquisition stepped out upon the ballroom floor of Celene's court. When she was introduced as, "Lady Inquisitor Ariwyn Lavellan, the Herald of Andraste, Protector of the Faithful." it had been a mouthful, nowhere near as terrible as Cassandra's long list of many titles, but still uncomfortable to stand still through. With that many eyes on her, hearing such an overbearing title placed upon her shoulders, and already possessing lofty expectations - it was frightening. She was scared she would disappoint, even if they were merely strangers behind masquerade masks. 

Her own comes away from her face when she pulls on the soft ribbon holding it around her head. Despite its comfortable nature at first, after the first hour it became clammy and almost stuck to her skin; the heat of the space, the nerves building up inside her, it made her sweat even more. Whilst it is beautiful, she is glad she can go without the mask for a few hours at the very least. She plays with it in her hands, before setting it down on a short table nearby the door. Then, she decides she ought to see the master suite they'd given to her. 

The space is massive. Unnecessarily so, in fact; it takes her a good dozen paces to reach the other side, where a balcony door remains shut. Gently easing it open, she breathes in the cool night air, and gazes upon the city. Val Royeaux was an Elven city, once. When the elves ruled the Dales, before the humans and their Chantry drove them out of everything they had built. It is obvious, really, as she examines the city below. The architecture and landscape, the horizon, the splendour of the Winter Palace in the distance - it is all so much like the Elven ruins she's encountered so many times. And yet it's not quite right; the Orlesians have made it their own. She sighs with a melancholic pang. What was this place like, before humans betrayed her people a second time? 

She comes away from the balcony when she hears a knock. It is soft and distant; she barely hears it over the wind blocking her ears. To the door to the suite she goes - did she mishear? Perhaps she should check, just in case. And then, when she gently pulls on the door handle, she feels a smile grow on her lips. 

"Solas." she greets, and eyes him up and down once before up to his face; her lips twitch when she sees he'd done the same. "This is a particularly late night visit." 

"Indeed." he agrees, and rubs at his jaw. "If you would prefer I leave, I would be-" 

"I didn't say you had to leave."

One of his brows quirk. He turns to look once up both directions of the corridor behind him. Then, back to her.

"May I come in?" he asks. A silly question, really. She steps back, pulls the door with her. Within a few strides he's inside, and she quietly tucks the door shut behind him. 

"What can I do for you?" she asks with a smile. She comes up behind him; explorative fingers caress the expanse of his back, over his shoulders, around his arms and across his chest. He remains impressively still the whole while, though his eyes watch her as she circles him, coming to a stop in front. 

"I wished to discuss a matter from earlier this evening with you." he says, matter-of-factly. Swiftly, her hands drop to her sides. 

"Oh." 

She feels quite embarrassed. Here she was, believing he'd come here to see her. To undress her with his eyes and then his hands, to toss and tangle in that stupidly enormous Orlesian bed until the sun came up. Of course it's about business. He respects his, and her, honour too much to be whispered about visiting the Inquisitor for anything other than that at such hours. 

Not as if there are already whispers about such an unusual appointment time. 

"May I sit?" 

"Hm? Oh, of course." 

He finds his way to a set of chairs she hadn't explored yet; two fanciful armchairs with tall backs and soft armrests, turned inward to a black fireplace. As he lowers himself into a chair, he waves his fingers - at the exact same time she does. The fire lights, but in two halves. He glances her way, a playful glint in his eye. She doesn't give up; her own flame creeps along the wood close to his, and he fights back. They tangle together and somehow, it feels all too physical. She flushes, and her concentration drops. Their eye contact she cannot maintain, for the look of small victory in his. 

"Well what is this matter?" she asks, as she sinks into the chair opposite. She was right about the armrests - all of it, in fact. It's so nice to sit down for the first time all evening that she melts into the plush comfort beneath her. 

The cool grey of his eyes reflect the warmth of the fire in an interesting blend of tones. "It concerns a man you spoke with in the ballroom earlier today," he says, voice calm, "A Comte Adnet if I remember correct."

Her eyes narrow. "You have reason to suspect him?" 

Solas hums. She thinks it strange, that in such a pressing circumstance, he'd take leisurely time to contemplate his answer. Then, his eyes leave the hearth. Trail across the pretty patterns in the marble in the ground, to where her bare foot rests upon it. Upward, along the exposed skin of her calf - to her knee, where the other leg is crossed over. Even further then, dragging so slowly across her hips, her waist, her chest; the arch and dip of her collarbone, up along the curve of her throat. Finally, to her eyes. 

"A reason to suspect him?" he echoes. She blinks out of her stupor, having almost completely forgotten their conversation. "No. But I have plenty of reason to dislike him." 

"Oh?" she hums. She decides to uncross her legs and then cross again; her other leg is on top. This way, it's easier to squeeze them together. "And why is that?" 

Solas shifts, too. Leans heavier on one arm; sets his chin in his palm, obscures the movements of his delicate lips with his fingers. They're distracting from his eyes, she thinks, and so she's thankful for the barrier of his hand. 

"Because I watched him," he says, and now, his voice sounds deeper. Darker. "From across the ballroom, spy you out. Undress you with his gaze, imagine you splayed out beneath him. Feasted upon the sight of you like a ravenous beast beneath that hideous mask. I watched him approach you; run his fingers across the delicate skin exposed by that nonsensical lace in the back of your dress."

Somehow, she finds the urge to hide her own lips behind her hand as well, though for a differing reason. She's smiling. She knows exactly why he's come to see her, why he's brought this up. She's never seen him jealous before. Her other hand, the one previously rested comfortably upon the chair, comes up to rest on her thigh. It doesn't do anything - not yet. 

"And the Comte's actions," Ariwyn begins, dropping her gaze to the hand rested upon her thigh. It draws his to it, as well. "Did they bother you?" 

"Of course they did." he says, as if it were obvious. It is, really. She just wants to tease him. "The brute was so obviously making you uncomfortable. And it was not his place, either, to touch you like that." 

"Like what?" she hums, "Like this?" 

Starting by her knee, she trails her hand upward, draws it back towards herself. Fingers, feathery light, inching closer and closer to her waist. When she reaches the crook between her leg and hip, she draws her hand away, sets it down once more atop the armrest. 

Solas hums, though he clears his throat, and shifts again. This time to lean back into his own chair, but keep his hand pressed to his chin in deep contemplation. 

"No," he decides, "He was nowhere near so gentle with you. He dared be a little more brazen than a gentle touch." 

She smiles. Then, to her feet she gets; slowly saunters to the hearth, careful to take every step to their fullest. This gown clings to her best spots, after all. 

"Would you show me?" she asks, eyes on the fire. "I'm having trouble remembering." 

At first he doesn't respond, nor move. She glances over her shoulder curiously at him; finds he has not moved an inch, sunk back against the chair. He looks far more comfortable than she has ever seen him, and it is more than the plush of the chair prompting it. His cheeks beneath his hand are slightly rosy, eyes half-lidded. It seems even he has indulged in a little bit of drinking this evening. 

"If you require a demonstration," he says, "I would be more than willing to show you." 

She turns back to face the flames. It's hot, but she doesn't mind. Her fingers go upward to her head, to where her hair is still bundled up in some intricate weave. With one tug it comes undone, falling over her shoulders and down her back. What a shame it is that it falls over the _nonsensical_ window of lace in the lower back of her dress. 

"I am fairly certain," she hears his voice come closer, and the soft sounds of his leather boots upon the marble, "That your hair was tied up, earlier this evening." 

"Hm, it was?" she smiles. "My mistake. But it will take too long to put back." 

"Indeed." he agrees. "It is not so terrible, I suppose." 

Immediately, from his first touch, she shivers. Damn. No matter how hard she tries to build a facade, it always crumbles away the second his fingers touch her body. They are hovering at her shoulder; they curl, tuck under the locks of her hair and in one smooth motion, guide them to settle over her shoulder. She breathes in, and goes still. When he touches her again, the coldness of his fingertips trace the skin of back, alas through the thin lace of her dress. She had agreed with his mindset, at first, when Josephine and Vivienne had showed her this dress. She thought she'd look silly, a slender Elven girl trying to dress up like an Orlesian lady. And yet when she walked out amongst her inner circle donning it for the first time, and swore she saw his eyes very briefly pop out of his skull, she decided it would be worth the chance of looking silly. 

"He touched you like this." she hears him say, right into her ear. His breath is hot and heavy, and the beautiful deep tone of his voice is doing all the right things to send shivers throughout her. "Rather brazen, is it not?" 

She bites her lip to stop the laugh that leaves her. His fingers barely skim her back, almost like a friendly greeting. She knows Orlesians are more familiar with public affection than Fereldens, absolutely. But poor Comte Adnet, whilst he may have looked at her like a piece of meat, certainly did not fondle her as Solas is suggesting. 

"If I didn't know any better, Solas," she breathes, "I'd think you were jealous." 

He scoffs, immediately. Withdraws his touch from her. "Jealous? I? You have proposed some incredulous things before, Inquisitor, but that is most impressive." 

The smile is wide on her lips. "Oh, yes. Silly me, such a preposterous thing to suggest!" she laughs, a little, playing along. "Curious, don't you think, how a stranger was so willing to lay his fingers on me - and yet you required prompting." 

"For I am patient, and not a barbarian." is his immediate defence. Her smile only grows. 

"Oh? Your patience certainly knew no bounds the last time we were alone." 

They both understand her sarcasm. She remembers the occasion with heated cheeks; for all his teasing, his games and his _patience_ , when he finally broke and gave in to the pleasure they both wanted, there was no such thing as patience anymore. She knows it, he knows it - and the smile on her lips is, hopefully, becoming all the more inviting by the second. 

And yet he does not take it as an invitation. Instead of joining her jest, he suddenly grows serious. A disapproving frown on his face, arms folded neat behind his back. 

"If anything, Ariwyn," he says, and despite his tone his use of her name warms her heart. "I am not jealous, but upset. That you would allow, as you say, a stranger, to touch you so. He was openly taking advantage of your unfamiliarity with such games - you could not see the eyes on you, nor hear the whispers of the court when you allowed him to be so familiar. I do not want your kindness to be used against you in such a way."

A soft sigh escapes her. She hadn't realised, but perhaps should've, what damage she could cause with such a passive decision. She wonders what was said about her - people didn't truly believe she'd let a man like Comte Adnet near her, did they? Was a simple touch the same as sharing a bed here in Orlais? Despite all her lessons, Josephine and Leliana coaching her in etiquette, Vivienne and Dorian showing her the ropes, she'd still made a mistake. And it took _Solas_ to point it out. The man who'd refused her dances, who'd quietly kept to himself all evening, sipped from the occasional glass of wine. If even he, from across the ballroom and so evidently cut off from the events, could see such a thing, then what about those whose eyes were actively trained on her every move? 

"I did not intend to upset you." he says. "I understand that it seemed like a mere touch, but who knows what power even a touch might give a man in a place like Val Royeaux?" 

"You're right." she breathes another sigh. "I'm sorry, I didn't realise what it looked like. And I shouldn't have teased you." 

She hears footsteps. Her eyes flick up when he is close, to see the gentle smile upon his lips. 

"I did not lecture you on the teasing, but Comte Adnet's actions." 

Her lips twitch. "So the teasing was okay?" 

"Perhaps I can be persuaded to enjoy being the recipient." he says, and runs a finger up her arm. "As much as I do enjoy teasing you."

She hums in thought. "Then, if you are so inclined to be _persuaded_ ," she whispers, pressing up on her toes to hover just an inch shy of his lips, "Would you be a dear and undo my dress for me?" 

For a moment he does not respond, physically or verbally. She feels his breath on her, fanning her face, warming her skin. Then, she settles back down on the balls of her feet when he moves - rounds her, trails his fingers over her collar and shoulder, dipping down her spine to where small buttons hold her dress together. She remains perfectly still as his fingers begin work to unfasten them, one by one. Then, abruptly, he stops. 

"Vhenan," he murmurs, and she hums. "You did not dress yourself, did you?" 

She shakes her head. "Vivienne helped me. Why?" 

"I am certain Madame de Fer would not have missed a button." 

She swallows. Over her shoulder she glances at him - sees, only briefly, a quiet rage boiling behind his eyes. 

"No matter." Solas says, surprisingly calm all of a sudden. "Perhaps Comte Adnet's hand merely slipped. Perhaps mine will." 

"What do you… Solas, please don't." 

His fingers unhook the final button at her waist. "Don't what?" he breathes into her ear. She gasps, unaware of how close he'd suddenly gotten. "Do I make habits of confronting noblemen in courts, Ariwyn? Do you believe I'd start trouble?" 

"N-Not trouble," she murmurs, "But, I know you'd do something."

Solas hums. She feels it on his lips, which rub against the tip of her ear. A shiver runs through her body as his hands, pressed flush against her back, force apart her dress; guide it out and away from her, ease it from where it clings to her shoulders. 

"I will have to give it some thought." he decides. "After all, such depravity must be met with such." 

"For now," she whispers, turning her head over against his shoulder at the chance of catching his lips. He does not let her. "Perhaps we can focus on our own depravity? Count Adnet can wait. I can't." 

"We've talked about your impatience, Ariwyn." he murmurs, and she shivers as his fingers trace across her skin. 

"And so we have." she says with a grin, "But do you really believe one lecture on my incessant begging will cure it?" 

"Perhaps we will need to have another lesson in it."

She helps him to free her arms from the gown, and with his guiding hands, it falls away from her hips and pools at her feet. For a moment she simply stands there with a smile, awaiting his reaction. This piece had not been entirely necessary, considering she had no plans to strip in front of Celene's court, but as Vivienne had said, "When in Orlais, do as the Orlesians do." That, mixed with the potential of having Solas visit her, had encouraged her even further to agree to Vivienne's suggestion. She'd said it would make her feel powerful and enthralling; and from how she commands Solas' unwavering gaze as she turns to face him, Vivienne was _exactly_ right. 

"What are you wearing?" he asks. Somehow his voice maintains its calm, and his face remains impassive.

Ariwyn shrugs. Runs her fingers across the band holding the intricate lacy bralette to her chest. "The Orlesians call it lingerie." she says with a hum, as if studying some unknown discovery. "I hear it's all the rage here. Do you like it?" 

"They are… Shockingly intricate, for underthings." he comments, and presses a hand to his chin in thought. "But I can admire its artistry. I will enjoy studying it." 

A smile twitches at her lips. "Good," she says, "Because I've already agreed to allowing Vivienne to overhaul my entire wardrobe. Undergarments included." 

"I see. So there will be… More, like these?" 

She steps forward to meet his outstretched hand, remaining perfectly still as the very tips of his fingers barely even touch her. They skim from the band at her shoulder, down ever so slowly across her chest. Over the lace covering her breasts, down her middle and over the ribbon holding her corset together. He stops at the base of her stomach, and takes a few steps to be closer. She eagerly turns her head to meet him, and yet he still refuses to kiss her. 

"Yes." she agrees, remembering he'd asked her a question. "Would've been such a shame had you decided you didn't like them." 

"Oh. I do appreciate them." 

She tips her head coyly, lips curled upward. "You might not like them after you see how long they take to take off." 

His brows raise. "You imply that I do not have the patience required." 

Ariwyn has to bite her lip to stop herself from laughing. Her fingers meet hers at the base of her corset, and pull at the ribbon. She undoes a few loops herself, and then invites him to do the rest. He does it with meticulous ease, eyes focused on the task at hand. And yet despite the relative simplicity of it, she sees the desire in his eyes, curiosity to see this whole silly ensemble come away. 

"Solas, I know you hate it when I'm impatient," she teases, "But might I make a request?" 

"You can certainly make one, vhenan," he says, still focused on the ribbon in his fingers. He's halfway up now. "Though I am as able to refuse it as you are to ask." 

"Kiss me?" 

His fingers still continue to weave the ribbon away, yet his eyes flash up to hers. To meet her desperate stare, to examine the lips below her nose just waiting for his. Then, he comes closer; dips his head and his height to meet her. She hums against his lips, loops her arms around his neck. Now that she has him, she doesn't want to let him go. She breathes him in, melts into the soft press of his lips. Sighs into his mouth when they part, and feels his tongue on hers. 

His tactics change. Instead of the slow and purposeful gentle tug of each loop of ribbon, he hooks his finger beneath the lowest, and runs it up and out. It comes undone far faster, and before long the corset has fallen to the ground at her feet. She thinks it unfair, suddenly, their state of dress. Her hands scramble at his chest, finding the buttons of his ridiculous dress uniform - Josephine had been insistent on this - and undoing them in a flurry. He'd lecture her in about five… Four… Three… 

"Eager, vhenan?" he chuckles against her, looping his arms around her waist. He pulls her close so that she presses up against him, and all her attempts to undress him end there. 

She rolls her eyes. "I've been waiting for this the second you mumbled some nonsense about a heady blend earlier." she huffs. She certainly enjoys being pressed this close to his body, but it isn't doing anything to help alleviate the tension between her thighs. From the second he'd walked in here, she'd had a growing need. 

"Ah," he chuckles in recognition, "When I told you that I appreciated the _heady blend of power, intrigue, danger and sex that permeates these events_?" 

She quirks a brow, impressed he remembers it word for word. Perhaps he practised it just to tease her later exactly like this. 

"Yes. That." she says dryly. 

"I'm disappointed." he admits, and she frowns. "To think that merely saying the word sex to you would excite you all evening." 

A groan leaves her. "I-It wasn't just the word. It was the way you said it." 

"Oh?" 

"Yes in that deep, seductive tone. The way you were looking at me when you said it. The little sip of wine you had after, even the way you were standing so relaxed up against that wall." she rubs at her forehead. "Do you not realise how much I wanted you right there and then?" 

It is his turn to tilt his head in curiosity, offer her a small yet teasing smile. "I am well aware of what I do to you, Inquisitor." using her title now only sounds like an even greater tease. He runs a finger across her jaw. "How about we try something a little different?" 

She frowns. "What do you mean?"

He comes close, presses his lips to her ear. Her breath catches in her throat as his teeth nibble ever so gently on the tip, and his fingers run down her spine. 

"Jutuan ma ir rosas’da’din, ma tel’aman melin." he whispers, and it has an immediate effect. Her face flushes bright red, and her eyes nearly pop out of her skull. She withdraws and blinks at him - once, twice, in disbelief. He's openly _smirking_ now. "Understand that, did you?" 

"S-Some." she stutters. It's unlike him to be so… vulgar. And yet she cannot hide how it's made her feel; she's hot to her core, and the desire in the pits of her stomach is so strong it almost hurts. 

"Only some?" he queries. Whilst she tries to scramble her thoughts together, she loses focus; watches as his fingers undo what she'd started on the buttons at his chest. He undoes the belt at his waist, lets the sash beneath fall to the ground. Deftly he pulls away at the over shirt and it too joins the growing pile. Beneath, he wears a sleeveless vest that clings to him in all the right places. She's practically drooling by the time he closes the gap between them, and brings her attention back to their conversation. 

"I- Yes. How do _you_ know what that means?" then, something dawns on her. "By the Creators, was Blackwall right? _Have_ you fucked spirits?" 

Shockingly, instead of any frustrated defence as he would when Blackwall made such a jest, Solas laughs. A gentle chuckle. He reaches out, runs his fingers across her throat; finds the strands of her hair behind, and tugs. It up turns her face to see him as he comes close, lips so close and yet too far to reach. 

"No." he says, "But I have seen certain… interesting things in the Fade. Would you like me to tell you what it means in full?" 

She isn't sure whether she should agree. She thought even her basic understanding of the phrase was enough to make her positively quiver in his grasp. Hearing him say it in common might even be too much, and yet… 

"Yes." she whispers. 

Solas' hands are on her again. They trail across her midsection as he moves around her, to come up behind her. When he's stopped, his chest pressed to her back, they explore. To her breasts, first; be cups them in his palms through the lace and she lets out a shaky breath, nails digging into his arms. 

"I did have to wonder," he breathes into her ear, "What effect something so utterly vulgar would have on you."

His thumbs run, in unison, over the peaks of her breasts, already hardened in the cold air. She whimpers, and squeezes her thighs tight together. 

"Its full translation, however," he continues, and runs his tongue over the tip of her ear. "Might do more damage than good." 

"Tell me." she whispers, "Please." 

She fidgets in his arms, breathes a sigh of relief when one of his hands delves lower. Across the smooth expanse of her stomach, dragging his nails across her skin. To the thin lace between her legs. She eagerly parts her thighs for him, but he does not touch her - not immediately. 

"It means," he breathes, "I will make you cum so much you won't remember your name." 

He isn't wrong; the full translation has certainly done damage. Damage to any calm she had left within her, damage to the stupid new undergarments that she still, for some reason, wears. She shudders in his grasp, and somehow feels even hotter than before. 

"Well," she whispers, with a smile, "I still remember it, so I suppose you should get about it, hm?" 

His fingers run up the inside of her thigh. "I certainly should." he agrees. A gasp catches in her throat when his fingers meet the lace. She twitches when they rub at her through it. Pleads when he presses hard against her. He retreats for a moment, and she almost complains - before his hand slips beneath the fabric, and his fingers find her core. Hot and wet under his touch, so needy and eager already. She whispers his name between a whimper and a moan, gripping to his neck to hold herself upright. Her back arches as a finger delves inside her soaked cunt; she feels him through his trousers, hard and pressed against the curve of her ass. By the Creators, she wants him. She wants him so much. 

His fingers find easy entrance to plunge deep, in and out of her. She shakes, biting hard on her lip; she knows he'd enjoy hearing her, but she isn't sure who else could. He isn't even meant to be here - Josephine would go ballistic if she knew the very same Inquisitor she'd ordered to bed less than an hour ago would be busy all night. And so she stays quiet, as much as she can. She whispers this to him, and he understands as well as she does; the free hand not occupied at her core presses over her mouth, holds her head against his chest. It helps, it helps a lot - she can get lost in the absolute bliss if she doesn't have to focus on holding in her noises of pleasure. And certainly, she could be making a dozen. 

She'd longed for this all day; she'd half contemplated sneaking off out of the ballroom with him, have him press her to a wall and slip a hand beneath her gown, finger her until she was a quivering mess, then return her to the court as if nothing had happened at all. Unfortunately, the reality of the festivities so far had been far less romantic that she had hoped; too much watching and waiting and sneaking. She'd barely had a moment to speak to him at all that evening between meeting the nobility and pleasing every man that told her she was rather beautiful for an _elf_. Backhanded compliments are not exactly her cup of tea.

What is, however, is how tight the knot in her stomach feels. How pleasure radiates through every inch of her body, how she thinks she might sob for the utter bliss of his fingers driving in and out of her. Her legs feel weak and he knows it; he brings her to sit with him on the plush stool at the end of the bed, placing her upon his lap and spreading her legs atop his own. She thinks it might be too much. Her head lolls back onto his shoulder and she loses all sense but the feeling; the pulse of his fingers inside her, the hardness of his cock against her ass. She barely manages to gasp out a warning before she comes undone, back arching and a muffled cry tearing from her lips against his hand. She pants for breath, collapsing against him, shuddering out the remnants of her orgasm as his fingers gently guide her through it. When it begins to hurt, her shaky hand settles on his, holding him still. Diligently, he does, and she lets out a breathy laugh. 

"And what is your name, my love?" he chuckles into her ear. 

"Ariwyn Lavellan." she says with a smile. "That was incredible, but I think I'll need a few more until I forget my own name." 

He hums, and rests his head against hers. "I could spend all night finding new ways to pleasure your sweet body," he says, "But I think you should rest. After all, it is you who has to contend with the biggest players of the Game." 

She snorts. "Absolutely not. You're not leaving this room tonight." 

"Who said anything about leaving?" 

She smiles, and lies her head to see his face. Despite his closed eyes, there is the smallest hint of a smile of his own on his lips. She hums in thought. Then, abruptly, rolls her hips down on his. His brows twitch. 

"Are you sure I should rest?" she whispers. Another roll - and he groans. 

"Ariwyn…" he warns. It only widens her smile. "If you tempt me I fear I will not be able to stop." 

"And no one wants you to." 

"The you facing tomorrow morning will." 

"And why is that?" 

His eyes open. The way he's gazing at her - with such violent desire - it immediately sends a tingle down her core. 

"Because you will be tired, and sore all over." he says, simply. As if it is only a matter of fact; a statement of reality that could never be untrue. 

She rolls her hips again. His eyes do not leave hers, but his grip on her waist tightens. Trails to her hips to hold her still - an attempt, anyhow. She does it again, angles herself back so that she might feel him press between her thighs instead. When she feels even the slightest hardness rub against her core, she lets out a soft moan, and chuckles. 

"You're sure you want me to stop?" she asks. She knows what she's doing to him as well as he does; he's stiffening again beneath her. He doesn't respond at first. For a moment he considers his options; leave her, and retreat to his room alone with unfulfilled lust and knowing she suffers the same. Or keep her up a few hours longer; follow through with his promise of making her forget her own name. She knows which she'd choose. 

Then, he decides. It happens so fast that by the time she's realised what's happened, she gasps. From his lap he's pushed her - not forcefully enough to hurt, but enough to surprise her - to the ground before them. He follows her, on his knees. Presses up against her ass, holds tightly to her hips. She softly moans, pushing back against him, desperate for him all over again. So much for his patience, she thinks with a smile, as his hands undo the laces of his trousers. The moment his trousers pool around his knees, she feels him; hard and ready against her. His greedy fingers grasp at the band of her underwear and pull them down so fast she fears they've actually torn. He doesn't take her immediately. No, suddenly he regains some clarity amongst the haze of his lust. 

"Tell me what you want, vhenan." he almost growls - voice so low and so needy despite his patience, it sends a delightful shiver through her. 

"You. Gods, Solas, I want you." 

He chuckles. "You want me? To do what?" he asks - playing oblivious. He always does this, and expects her to give him a command, or beg him. It was his way of gaining control, and she loved it, even if it drove her mad. 

"Pala em," she breathes, "Please. Please, _please,_ pala em." 

He needs little more convincing than that. He takes her hip in one hand, and she gasps as the tip of his cock teases her entrance. Desperate, she rolls her hips back, but his hand, now firm on her back, holds her still. Where she had previously held herself on her hands, how he holds her now forces her down; to lean against the freezing marble with her forearms, feel the chill on her breasts. She rests her cheek against the floor to cool herself, if only briefly; to whisper her pleas, beg in her lust for him. Forever teasing, playing with her, inciting her burning desire. His hard cock rubs the length of her core, from her clit to her sopping entrance, as wet as her eyes will be with tears if he does not take her soon. When he's reduced her to a mumbling, begging mess, finally, _finally_ , she chokes out a breathy moan of relief. He pushes his length inside her with one fluid stroke, buries himself completely within. 

"Your hands, vhenan." he asks - surprisingly maintaining a rather steady tone. "Give them to me, behind your back." 

Struggling to catch her breath, she pushes up from the ground where she'd supported herself with her arms. And, without hesitation, offers up her arms behind his back like he'd asked. He takes her wrists in one hand, pressing them against the small of her back. As if it wasn't already mind-numbingly glorious to have him inside her, this new position made it all the sweeter. Having him hold her so, keep her up from the ground whilst using it to draw himself up within her - it made her moan with delight before he'd even begun to move. 

And then he fucks her. Slow at first; easy and smooth, in and out. His soft breaths join her whispers, which becomes pleas for more. For him to go faster, harder. She tries Elven again, knowing it would encourage him more than any common beg would. She'd have to remember it for the future, for it works perfectly. His grip on her wrists is so tight it'll hurt tomorrow, but he begins to thrust faster, ram into her harder. His hips slam into hers; she aches and her arms scream in agony from the tight position he holds her in, but it only makes it sweeter. His cock slides in and out of her as if it is made for her alone; he groans every time she squeezes around his length, a sound that sends shivers up her spine. If she could bottle a sound, it would be his pleasure. A sound only she hears when they are alone - reserved for only her ears. 

Solas pulls on her arms. It brings her up, off the ground; her back presses to his chest and he wraps his arms around her. One ventures to the apex of her thighs; finds where her pleasure lies, rubs at her clit with just one finger. Then, another. All the while, he continues to thrust his cock into her, and she thinks she might actually lose consciousness for the euphoria she feels. 

When finally she's hit by her high for the second time, she remembers too late she's meant to remain quiet. Her cry breaks into a whine, shuddering violently as her orgasm wreaks wonderful havoc on her body. Solas' grip on her loosens and she returns to her hands, arms shaking in the attempt to hold herself upright. She's determined to stay with him until he finds his own pleasure, shaking through the waves of euphoria and gasping when she becomes oversensitive to his thrusts. It's not long after that he finds his relief; unlike her he's prepared, and bites down on the back of his hand, muffling the groan that tears from his lips as he spills his release on her thighs. 

When he stills, she finally realises what Josephine had meant. That this residence was not the ideal location; in the silence that follows, amongst their gasps for breath, she hears celebration in the streets below. Celene's party is not simply contained to the Winter Palace, and even at these late hours - or early hours, she isn't sure - there's still a party going on outside her window. 

"Are you alright, vhenan?" he asks. She blinks out of her silent bliss, and lifts herself up off the cold ground. He withdraws from within her and she breathes, coming up to her knees to press a kiss to his lips. 

"I'm perfect." she reassures, "That was perfect. We're perfect." 

For a moment, something crosses his face. Something that confuses her - surely not sadness? After making such beautiful love together, how could he be sad? Then, it's gone. Replaced with the smallest of smiles. 

"I always fear I've hurt you," he admits, "When I lose my focus, I realise I can be…"

"Rough? Domineering? Incredibly sexy?" she giggles. "You should know by now I have absolutely no complaints when you behave that way." 

"I know, but it is never my wish to harm you." 

She gets to her feet - though her legs are shaky - and offers him her hands. He comes up with her, and whilst she cleans up and undressed further out of the remainder of her underclothes, he decides to refasten his trousers, and collect his shirt. 

"And now you're leaving me?" she whines with a pout, traipsing across the bed behind him. She was right about its size - it's unnecessarily large. She could fit three bears in here with her, those horrifyingly huge ones from the Hinterlands. "It would be a shame to sleep in this huge bed all alone." 

"And it would be a shame for us both to be lectured tomorrow morning when Ambassador Montilyet finds us together." he quips back, as he slips his arms into his sleeves. 

"You don't need to be scared of Josie." 

"I do not fear her, but I certainly do not want to make her an enemy." 

She rolls her eyes. Admittedly, she's a bit disappointed he's not staying. Back at Skyhold, when they'd spent hours losing themselves in each other, one of her favourite parts of an evening was when she curled up in bed beside him. To feel his warmth, to rest her head against his chest or feel his arms encircle her from behind. To fall asleep and wake up beside him, knowing he had stayed because he loves her. He's right in this case, of course; they could both do without an ear full from Josephine tomorrow on propriety and the rest. She can imagine it now: "I expected better of you, Master Solas! Sneaking into the Inquisitor's chambers so late at night." and as for her: "I told you to get rest! And you ignored my suggestion." followed by a pair of impressively sad puppy dog eyes. She'd face disappointment _and_ betrayal. It sounds like too much to concern herself with. 

"I suppose then," she says with a sigh, as she crawls toward the end of the bed where he still stands, "I'll see you in the ballroom tomorrow. Save me a dance this time?" 

He offers her a small smile. He outstretches a hand, catches her chin between his fingers. 

"If I dance with anyone at all at this ball, it will be you." he tells her. "I suggest a differing gown tomorrow evening, perhaps? One in which Comte Adnet cannot touch your delicate skin?" 

She bites her lip. "I may just have to so I can see you jealous again." 

He leans down to her. To pull her lip out from between her teeth, kiss her, and catch it between his own. 

"Rest well, vhenan." 

"You too." 

And with that he leaves her to her sleep. With a sigh, she flops over onto the bed. As if she could possibly manage that now, without him here. Perhaps, with what energy she has left, she ought to hide the evidence of Solas' visit. That means disposing of the now-ruined lingerie. 

They're not her concern anymore. Not when she lashes them off the balcony, and they land somewhere in the street below. 

"Whoops." she breathes. "Sorry Vivienne." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elven phrases taken from Project Elvhen:
> 
> Jutuan ma ir rosas’da’din, ma tel’aman melin. || I will make you come so much that you won’t remember your name.
> 
> Pala em || Fuck me 
> 
> This is actually the first time I've posted smut anywhere, so please let me know if you enjoyed it with a comment or kudos ❤️
> 
> I also have a tumblr, find me there for more Solas love under the blog name bubble-bones!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the longest time, I was contemplating scrapping the potential for chapter 2 and 3 for this mini fic because I did not like how it turned out every time I wrote it. I went through 4 drafts of this chapter (with multiple different plot lines) and ended up liking this version the most. I mean, there's not *much* plot before it devolves into smut, but I know that's what all you dirty bastards are here for anyway hahaha
> 
> Warning: this chapter is a lot heavier on the dom!Solas idea. If you're not into a guy being domineering over his partner (i.e. giving commands and being rough/forceful and she's into it) then this is not for you. If you are however, I hope you enjoy!

This world in which Solas finds himself that evening is so painfully familiar. Once upon a time, he would've embraced this alluring, enchanting and yet deadly atmosphere with both hands. Courtly intrigue had once been his forte, his beloved pastime; in the courts of Mythal and Elgar'nan - when they were in love, long ago - he had excelled at what the Orlesians now call "the Game." He had weaved between the ballroom as he might nowadays the Fade. Unravelled whispers and brushed with the deadliest of secrets. He would charm and plot his way to the very top, finding amusement in the fickle manner in which those around him would scramble to climb with him. 

Yet he is not in Arlathan anymore. Nor does he hold claim to any such power, or even the title he once possessed. Not even the badge of pride that would terrify the loyal courts of the tyrannical Evanuris, towards the end - he is not Fen'Harel here. 

Here, he is simply a quiet if mysterious elf, keeping to the shadows and sipping his wine. 

Solas can still, at the very least, take simple pleasure in watching, and listening. Even though a part of him takes insult to the manner in which the human nobility around him brushes him off as no threat at all, it affords him opportunities few of the Inquisitor's Inner Circle are given. Even the Inquisitor herself, despite being an elf, is not privy to the information he is able to listen in on; she is too often crowded by nobles, who press her for answers to questions that have little importance in the grand scheme of things. Maybe the Game has changed since he has last played. 

His wine glass is becoming increasingly empty, and that does not bode well for his enjoyment. He had been hanging onto every word from the whispering pair of men nearby - bickering over the hand of a particular noblewoman the both of them were too afraid to approach directly. If this were Arlathan, they'd already be dueling, he thought with a snort. Not to the death, of course; no, that would do poorly for a grand event in which subtle play should be at hand. If one really had to die at such an event, it would be through means of cloak and dagger. Poison in a glass, perhaps. Dramatic and effective. 

It is really not like him to be considering such things. Not like  _ Solas _ , anyhow - the man he had become after waking up from his long slumber, the mask that had eventually become his skin after long enough of wearing it before the Inquisition. The only one who had come close to seeing beneath it had been Ariwyn herself, but he would not show even her his true self.  _ He  _ did not even know who this true self is anymore; Pride and Solas felt like two entities all their own. His dark past as Fen'Harel, and his brighter future as the man at Ariwyn's side. 

For now, at least. He pushes the pained thought aside, and gets up from his post beside the wall. His glass is empty. 

The pair of noblemen seem horrified to see him move - like they'd assumed him a statue in the darkness. Remaining perfectly still for long periods of time is not exactly difficult for one who had lived in a time of immortality, after all. The two take off to some other part of the Palace open to the public, and he decides to seek out another drink. They were getting boring to listen to, anyhow; their insults were painfully dull, and most of the more interesting ones had been Orlesian words he didn't understand. Perhaps he would care to learn new languages like Orlesian and Tevene, if only he had time. There is so much to catch up on from recent history, too much that he has missed. If he must destroy this world before he restores his own, then he will at the very least honour its memory. 

_ When _ , not if. He growls under his breath and focuses on where he's walking. He shouldn't allow himself to think about things such as this. 

For most of the evening - and the evening before - he had kept to the quieter, darker corners of the Palace. Once or twice, he'd used his pointed ears to slip beyond where guests were allowed, but it had been difficult to get far while in this uniform clearly stating him a member of the Inquisition, and not a servant. Still, what exploring he'd managed had formed something of a map of the closed wings, one that he'd made physical and handed to Ariwyn before the night began. She had given him such a bright smile and taken it from him; folded it up small and tucked it in her corset, right between her soft breasts. As if she knew that he'd watch it, and have to fight with his self-restraint. 

_ Minx _ , he thinks with a smirk. Oh, how he would've loved to find that flimsy bit of paper again if he had undressed her there and then like her gaze so wanted him to. 

But now he comes out into a brighter area of the Winter Palace. The main ballroom, he realises, filled to the very brim with people in glamorous dress and ornate masks. Ariwyn is wearing one of these; he'd helped her tie it before she'd stepped out into court that evening. It is dark and shimmers under light, low enough over her cheekbones to cover the dip of her vallaslin, rising up over the bridge of her nose. It brings emphasis to those sparkling emerald eyes of hers: those same eyes that greets him in the morning with adoration, the ones that cloud with mind-addled lust when they're tangled in bed. While she certainly holds no emotion back, whether it be rage, frustration, joy or fear, it is always her  _ eyes  _ that tell the most. He is in love with her eyes. 

Perhaps he should be trying to focus on the happenings of the ballroom. Maybe even on his own task of finding a new drink to replace the empty glass he'd left behind at the feet of a statue atop a plinth a while ago. But he can't erase her face from his mind, for whatever reason. He has to see her, if only to set his heart at ease so he can focus once more. 

Wine was perhaps a mistake. 

He had not considered what he might be like with her while intoxicated; how he might feel while his mind is riddled with the sway of alcohol. He had never allowed himself to drink in her presence lest he grow too comfortable and say too much. Solas had never been one to lose his composure to a few drinks, but even being with her helped loosen his restraint. He could not imagine the devastation he might unwittingly cause with a loose tongue and even looser defenses around her curious questioning. 

It is mildly amusing how little humans here take note of elves. Even he, dressed in Inquisition finery, is blatantly ignored as if he is but a fly on the wall. He weaves through the crowds, listens to the general hub of laughter, chattering, the distant sound of instruments and the clack of heels on the marble as revelers dance. Hands clasped behind his back, he is able to maintain a posture of some dignity as he surveys the ballroom. He hears her before he sees her - a polite laugh, to anyone else. But he knows her laugh, her  _ real  _ laugh. That is not it. 

Solas spies her back between a cluster of nobles that block his path. She's wearing a different dress from last night, but this one is even  _ worse  _ than the design of the first. She is absolutely stunning; a tight corset around her waist that lifts her breasts, emphasises the curve of her hips; her sleeves hang off the shoulder, displaying her lovely neck and sharp collarbone; the coppery locks of her hair are tied up to showcase it further. Josephine and Vivienne have done her justice dressing her as the marvel she deserves, yet it does not sit well with him. He  _ knows  _ exactly what jealousy feels like, and he hates it. He absolutely detests the clenching of his chest at the mere thought of any other man being allowed to even study her in that beautiful silk gown, shimmering different shades of deep ivy to match with the Inquisition heraldry. 

Jealously feels like such a childish emotion. It is a waste of time, especially when he knows where her heart belongs - and to whom. Yet the quiet storm bubbling up inside him isn't settling. Especially not when he spies the smirking face of that pompous Comte Adnet far too close to her for comfort. 

He crosses the distance between himself and her audience. And not a moment too soon, either; he is able to weave his way into the path of Adnet and place a hand upon the small of Ariwyn's back just like the shrewd noble had planned. 

"Good evening, Inquisitor," he says quickly, attempting to sound business-like. The nobles who had been enthralled in some tale or another of Adnet's blink at him with curiosity, and he does not like it. He isn't a man of court anymore, and he much prefers his privacy. "When you have a moment, may I trouble you to speak with me? I have something that might interest you." 

She offers him a smile - a grateful one he recognises. Even she, with her unpractised and minimal knowledge of such events, had begun to take note of Adnet's behaviour. Something familiar, far too much like pride, squeezes at his heart. How magnificent she would've been in the halls of Arlathan's mightiest and powerful. 

"Of course." she says politely, "I won't be long. Allow me to just finish the end of this intriguing story, and I will seek you out." 

"Thank you. I will be in the gardens."

His gaze lingers on her lips, painted an alluringly dark shade tonight, for a moment more. Then, bows his head both to her and her collection of nobles, and leaves. He had bought her time and a distraction from the Comte, enough for her to put some distance between them whilst she remains for just a while longer. The rules of the Game surely have changed during his slumber - no man in his time would've so viciously and obviously chased a woman who expressed a distaste in him, especially not so publically. Unless… 

Ariwyn is far too polite. 

He lets out a small groan as he steps out into the cool air of the outdoors. Josephine had probably pushed such a value on court face that she had never bothered to teach the Inquisitor of the less-friendly approaches. He runs a hand over his scalp and rubs his tongue over his teeth. If the Ambassador was unwillingly to teach her, perhaps he might enlist other help. 

Said help is found out here in the gardens as well. There is a fountain nearby where he catches a familiar mage flicking a coin amongst its pools. He can't imagine what Dorian is wishing for, but he supposes it doesn't matter - such fickle fancies are private. His eyes flick up the second he sees Solas' approach, and his lips curl into a jovial smile beneath his moustache. 

"Solas! Enjoying the evening? Isn't it delightful?" he says cheerfully, though it sounds simply dripping with sarcasm. 

"Evening." he greets in return. "It was until I found my glass empty." 

Dorian chuckles darkly. "Ah, an easily fixed problem." 

He goes to wave down a nearby servant, but Solas shakes his head. 

"No, I should not indulge further. I am waiting to meet with the Inquisitor, anyhow." 

"Oh? And how is our lovely Inquisitor this evening?" 

"Splendid." he says before he stops himself. Dorian is eyeing him with a smile. "Why are you looking at me like that? I merely praise her handling of this court, considering her circumstance." 

"Bull was right - you've got an impressive pair of puppy dog eyes when you talk about her!" Dorian's smile is full of glee, and snorts. "I do wish she'd told me first, but oh well. I'm sure she'll come to me to complain about your bed habits eventually." 

"Excuse me?" 

Dorian glances at his nails. "Excused. Now, is there any particular reason you're here talking to me?" 

Solas breathes - the Tevinter mage's particular manner of speaking was insulting at the best of times. Now, while he is vaguely tipsy? It tugs at a quiet voice in the back of his mind, urging him to tear up the more primal and vicious language he had buried deep a long time ago. Now is certainly not the time to be giving in to Fen'Harel.

"I would ask a favour." he says, simply. It is harder to continue this thought when Dorian's brows inch up to his hairline. "Ariwyn appears unfamiliar with the concept of  _ politely  _ removing herself from an uncomfortable situation." 

"You mean telling unwanted attention to find somewhere else to bury its stick?" he asks with a roll of his eyes, "Yes, I noticed that too. And what would you have me do?" 

"Teach her how she might say so without injuring her reputation." 

"What makes you think I know how to manage a reasonable reputation?" 

"I did not say that. I implied you have the means to teach her how to tear apart a man with words alone."

Dorian's eyes flash with amusement. "Now that is something I can do." he grins, and then glances over his shoulder. "Speaking of - here she comes. Don't worry, you look positively handsome." his fingers come up to bat away something on his shoulder, though. 

He withholds the roll of his eyes. If Dorian saw him doing that, he would never let him forget. 

"Solas, Dorian." Ariwyn greets politely with a little bow, and when the two of them look at her strangely, she quirks a brow. Then, huffs. "Creators, sorry. I've just been so uptight all evening, it's so hard to switch off." 

"Do not apologise. It is good that you do not let your guard down here." Solas tells her reassuringly. For once, Dorian nods in agreement. It is rare that they would agree. 

"He's right. Though I imagine he has something to help with that tenseness." he says helpfully, and Solas shoots him a glare. Ariwyn looks a little horrified - as if she hadn't expected news of their relationship to have already reached Dorian's greedy ears. He gives her a wink, then looks once more to Solas. "I can help with that thing you suggested when we're out of here tonight. For now, I see something interesting over…  _ There _ !" 

And after having decided what excuse he is going to use, Dorian withdraws himself from the conversation. Ariwyn watches him go, and then looks up at Solas with a cutesy frown that makes his stomach do a little flip. 

"What suggestion might that be?" she asks curiously, but he shakes his head. 

"A concern for later - walk with me?" 

She beams at him in place of saying anything in particular. Together they begin off around the gardens; it is far quieter here than the insides of the Palace, and he notes that the groups of people are now becoming pairs, scattered and few. Couples, precisely. He had not intended for this to be romantic, per se, but it is not a bad thing. 

He gazes to his side where she walks with him. She is quiet and contemplative, and her thoughtful expression is one of his favourites on her. Amongst the dazzling smile, the adoration when she has just kissed him, and the desire-fueled lust when they're making love. Her hands twist together in front of her, and his stomach tangles into knots with every pull of her fingers. She shouldn't be nervous - why would he give her cause to be nervous? 

"What is on your mind?" he asks, morbidly curious. 

Ariwyn blinks, as if the bubble clouding her mind has popped. 

"Oh, nothing," she says dismissively, "Just… Thinking. About everything that's happened so far, and what will happen when I go back into that bloody ballroom." 

_ Ah _ . It is not him that is causing her anxiety - what a relief. It is understandably the foreign battleground that is the ballroom. He outstretches his hand to her, and after a moment, she takes it; he tucks it under his arm and her cheeks flush. 

"Have I told you how dazzling you look tonight?" he says, as a means of distraction. It works, for the colour of her cheeks becomes a new shade of red entirely. 

A delighted giggle leaves her lips. "You certainly gave me bedroom eyes when you saw what I was wearing, but no. You haven't mentioned it, yet." 

Solas' lips twitch upward. "It is not simply an effect of the dress. Indeed, it is beautiful, but a woman not blessed with natural beauty could not wear it nearly as well as you." 

"Stop, you're making me blush!" she jokes, but she is still smiling. 

"I merely speak the truth. You are…" 

Her eyes are looking at him expectantly. Full of life and wonder and hope. He is reminded suddenly how truly cruel he is - how befitting his cursed title he is. One day he must hurt this wonderful woman; the one who looks at him with so much love and devotion. When that day comes, will he even have the strength? Or will she break him down, brick by brick, and have him whispering his secrets in full like a prayer? 

By now they have stopped walking. She is too busy staring at him to pay attention to where she places her feet, patiently waiting for him to find a sufficient enough word to describe her. He swiftly finds he cannot. His chest is tight, and his mind yells a dozen different adjectives at him all at once, and yet none of them are good enough to explain how he feels. Instead, he simply catches her face in his hands and kisses her. A gentle and brief kiss, but he cannot help himself. She gifts him an immediate hum of joy, and her fingers twist into the front of his jacket, refusing to let him go when he intends to break away. 

"Don't stop." she whispers, voice low and desperate. "Please. I need this." 

A distraction. That is what she needs. He had said many months ago that that is what he will become to her - because that is what she needs. He had expressed a disinterest in being something so dismissive and unimportant to her, and he had always seen her hesitate before asking him to take her mind off things. She is as aware of it as he is. But he no longer cares about such descriptors; he is more than happy to distract her mind from tonight's events because he  _ loves  _ her. And if this is what she wants, this is what he will give. 

"Ariwyn." he groans as her teeth gently nip at his bottom lip. "We must calm. I cannot… " 

_ Cannot stop _ , is what he should've said. He is the master of control over himself yet now, while the wine he drank still sings in his veins, he wants nothing more than to take her here and now. Self-restraint is a practise he is well-versed in, but now he finds it so hard to withdraw and keep his hands to himself. 

She does it for him and gives him a little smile. His front feels cold from where she is no longer pushed up against him. Curious eyes follow her hands; fingers press against the pale skin of her exposed chest, push gently at where one breast is pressed up against the other. And then her other hand reaches into her corset, finds the little piece of paper that's all crumpled. Her smile is suggestive now, a mere idea. And then she offers him up the map. 

"You were the one exploring, after all." she says softly. "Find us somewhere private." 

He breathes slowly and evenly, despite his raging pulse. "I do not know if that is the best idea." he says. "I-I am slightly intoxicated." 

"Even better." she says with a grin. 

_ No _ . If he lies with her while not in control of his own inhibitions, what would he do? Would he give in to the deeper desires he normally refuses himself? And what would that mean for her - would she enjoy such a thing? She sees the hesitation in his eyes, and closes the distance between them to squeeze his hands in hers.

"We don't have to." she murmurs, and though her words are gentle, he can see her disappointment in her frown. "If you really think it's a bad idea…" 

"I-" he sighs. He wants nothing more than to sneak off with her and find somewhere where they might enjoy the simple pleasure of each other. For once, he decides he can offer her the truth. "I have been practising some self-restraint," he admits, and the glow of curiosity on her face returns, "When we lie together. I fear that if we were to be intimate now, I would not be able to keep a clear head." 

"Self-restraint from what?" she murmurs, and she's chewing on her lip again. 

He can see it in her body language alone; the way she is now pressing up against him, the shift of her hips implying her legs are flush together beneath that shirt. He hasn't even begun yet and she is wanting. He wets his lips with his tongue, and leans closer. 

"I have been known to enjoy intimacy of a… Rougher nature." he admits, and her eyes grow wide with - what? That isn't shock or disgust. Certainly, he had admitted some of this in the past, but she seems more excited at the prospect of finally hearing details. "You have seen only glimpses of how I like to extend control over my partner. I… Have been trying to withhold it all so that you might learn to enjoy our intimacy at a pace you would like." 

She opens her mouth immediately, but hesitates. He waits while she reconsiders what she will say. 

"I really do appreciate that." she says, and turns to look once more to him with a smile. "Thank you for being so patient."

"Of course. I would not have it any other way." 

"But," she continues immediately, "As of late, the patience thing has been… Getting old." she's grinning at him now - soft lips curled upward suggestively. "It's become more of a tease than anything, and I- well, I wouldn't mind if you were being more… Rough." 

The word had lingered on her tongue a moment before it tumbled from between her alluring lips. His gaze lingers on them for a moment, and he battles a losing fight to resist the urge to claim her lips with his. He forces his eyes up to her own, and sees the light of curiosity in them mixed wonderfully with passionate desire. He runs a thumb across the line of her jaw, and then unfolds the map in his other hand. 

He hears more than sees her little giggle of glee. He finds where they stand relative to the things they had passed by on the way - things he had taken note of in case they wandered too far and endangered themselves. Then, scans what areas he had managed to explore. The rooms nearby are part of a wing undergoing redecoration; empty rooms full of storage and dust. Not ideal, he thinks - certainly not the most romantic of venues. But he wants her so much it is eating away at his logic, so he takes her hand and guides the way to the nearest point of entry that they might find privacy. 

"We have to be quick." she whispers with a smile in her voice as they disappear behind a wall of thick trellis. "I can't be late to return to the ballroom or people will think something is wrong." 

He offers her a smile of his own. "I'm certain you will win more approval should you arrive somewhat fashionably late, my love." 

She hums in thought. Evidently that had not been a thought to cross her mind - and it is abruptly gone the moment he takes a left at the door they come across. It is locked, which is a good sign. Last night when he had come here, servants had left it open while they went back and forth. If it is locked, that would serve as an inconvenience if servants were using this entrance again tonight. He casts a quick spell and the handle comes open under his hand. He guides her in, and closes it behind them. 

"I wonder why Celene is redecorating this wing." Ariwyn muses quietly as they begin through halls in the dark, furniture and paintings on the walls covered in dull linen sheets. "It looks alright to me." 

"That is nobility," he says with a chuckle, "They do not simply settle for  _ alright. _ "

"I suppose. I don't get it - Dalish thing I guess." 

He runs his thumb over the back of her hand. She sounded uneasy admitting that; yet another thing she is unfamiliar with about her current setting. How he wishes he could teach her all he knows. But that would reveal too much, and there is no time. 

"Here." Solas says, and stops her. She's shaking a little with excitement, and he cannot help the smile on his face. There's a small door to the right that he knows for certain leads to a smaller room - no windows, with nothing particularly eye-catching inside. But they are far from the height of the party now. The door comes open with one attempt, and he leads her inside. 

"Well isn't this romantic?" she whispers and then breaks into a soft laugh. He closes the door behind her as she examines the space. There's boxes stacked in the corner, a wardrobe against one wall and a chest of drawers right beside it. What interests him most is the desk in the middle of the room, with a chair placed haphazardly beside it. He crosses the distance between them and swiftly undoes that distracting mask from her face and discards it on one of the boxes by the door. He places his hands on her hips - backs her against the desk. A surprised gasp leaves her. 

"Not as much as I would like," he admits, smiling in satisfaction at how short and quickly her breaths come. "But it will suffice, do you not agree?" 

"Yes.  _ Yes _ ." she says breathily, and reaches up to wind her arms around him. Her kiss is hungry and desperate; her tongue greedily melds against his and a delicious mewl leaves her parted lips when he presses his thigh between her legs. "Solas, please." 

He chuckles. "For what do you beg,  _ vhenan _ ?" 

"You- Gods, you. Please." 

His hand at the side of her neck shifts; thumb presses to the underside of her jaw to guide her head back, and lips graze the column of her throat.  _ Fenedhis _ , she is breathing so desperately as if they have already done the act. So easily excited, and he adores it. He pushes his knee hard into the desk behind her, up further between her thighs, and she whispers a needy little, "Yes!" as her hips grind on him. 

Then he withdraws entirely. She gasps in surprise and clutches at him, but he has already stepped away. 

"Turn around." he instructs, and without hesitation she does as he asks. She twitches when his fingers reach to trail across the curve of her bare shoulder, feeling goosebumps rise in his wake. A little breath catches in her throat when he comes close, breezes a line of kisses against her throat. And then he pushes, only gently; she goes down with his guiding hands without a fight, flattening against the desk and laying her cheek on the wood. The moment he begins to gather up her skirts, she begins to twist her hips up toward him, and breaths become begs. 

"You are so impatient." he scolds, and a soft whine leaves her. 

"I said I'm tired of patience." she murmurs, and huffs when he flattens a palm against the small of her back and presses her still against the desk. "Oh, Solas,  _ please  _ hurry up." 

He chuckles. Her interpretation of rough evidently did not match his own; had she expected him to push her down on this table in a scrambled, lust-addled rush and claim her wonderful body immediately? No, that has its time. A good roughness comes from torturous teasing, followed by a long and  _ hard _ fuck. He doesn't tell her this, of course. She is one of the most intelligent creatures he has ever known - she will figure it out in due time. 

He lays the gathered silky fabric of her skirt over her back, tucking it beneath her so it will stay. She shivers a little, and he gets to enjoy the full display; she is wriggling her hips again, and he admires the roundness of her ass with eyes and hands, trailing the lace of her smallclothes down to the wetness between her thighs. She gasps desperately at his mere breezy touch, and he withdraws his hand. She's wearing stockings - he's never seen her wear them before. Tight ones that are mostly see-through and held up to her legs by suspenders which stretch over her skin and cut in a little. He hooks his finger under one and pulls gently, and as expected it comes undone even with the slightest of added strain. Yet the stocking stays mostly up, flush with her leg. It does not  _ really  _ matter, but seeing her in such a dishevelled state right before she must return to the ball arouses him more than it should. And so he undoes the other, tugging at the stockings that peel away from the soft flesh of her legs. 

"Solas." she whines, " _ Please  _ hurry up. I don't have infinite patience like you!" 

He finds himself laughing again. It is a dark and subtle laugh, but he knows she catches it all the same. 

"It is not about patience anymore." he says simply, and presses his fingers gently against her pussy through her smalls. He's rewarded with a desperate gasp and her back arches into his touch. "Allow me to teach you what  _ rough  _ means to me." 

He isn't really sure she's listening anymore. His touch is truly the minimum; a static pressure on her core, and she is desperate to move him with her hips alone. She grinds against his hand, panting for some sort of relief. 

"Are you listening?" he asks, and when she doesn't respond he takes his hand away. 

"Y-Yes! I'm listening." she says hurriedly, and he doesn't believe it for a second. 

"Then what did I just say?" 

She bites her lip hard, and breathes out lowly. "You're going to teach me," she says, and sounds impressively calmer than before, "And I want to learn." 

"Good." 

He is reminded then of something she once said to him. When she had been on her knees between his legs, asking him to praise her if she did well. And it comes to mind when she shudders from such a simple word that had left him. 

"Will you be good and listen to what I say,  _ vhenan _ ?" he asks, and she squeezes her eyes closed. 

"Yes, I'll be good. I promise." 

So eager to please. He smiles, and rewards her with a touch. A stroke, slow and teasing from the curve of her behind down to her sensitive clit. She remains impressively still, panting for a breath; he does it again and he is amazed at her sudden composure. Somehow it feels a little less fun to tease her so when she isn't fitfully begging him and whimpering his name. 

He pulls at the side of her smalls, which are soaked under his touch. He wastes no time at all; his fingers dip into her heat and  _ yes _ \- she chokes out a moan, and her fingers grasp desperately at the edge of the desk. He pets at her clit, adoring the witless, desperate breaths she chokes on. She is wet and slick with desire, and his fingers find easy means to plunge inside her. The sight of them buried inside her, all the way to his knuckle, sends a bolt of lust right to his cock. It would be so easy to undo his trousers and… 

No. He is trying to teach her something, and it would be a disservice to stop now. 

"You're allowed to make noise," he says with a chuckle, "I never forbade your lovely sounds of ecstacy." 

"Oh, thank Mythal." she pants, and lets out a fitful gasp as she pushes her hips back against his hand. "D-Do you like listening to me?" 

"A silly question." he responds immediately. "For you know I do. If I could, I would have you screaming. But I am sure  _ that  _ would attract attention." 

A little laugh leaves her. And then she moans - a delicious low and languid moan as she rocks her hips back onto his fingers, as he guides them back and forth in a subtle motion. Her back is arched and she leans on her forearms, staring down at the desk below in what he can only assume is lust-fueled concentration. That is the only downside to such a position, he thinks with disappointment. He does not get to see the ways in which her lovely features express her pleasure. 

"How do you feel,  _ vhenan _ ?" he asks, curiously. 

"It feels…" she huffs, and dips her head. "It's not enough, Solas. Please, I need more."

He hums. She can only move so much, after all, pressed to the desk as such. He, however, has far more control, and he is enthralled by it. He could go as fast or as slow as he desires, and enjoy her tortured pleasure how he wants. But she is right - this is not nearly enough to bring her to her release. Nor is it what he promised. 

She also must return to the ballroom eventually. 

His fingers withdraw and she whines, trying to scramble up to follow him. He presses firmly on her back and pushes her back down, and she wriggles beneath him. 

"Remember your promise,  _ vhenan _ . Behave." he says strictly and she almost immediately stills. Something in him wants to laugh at her dedication, but that would break the illusion. "Better. Do not move." 

She does exactly as she is told when he withdraws his hand. She lays still against the desk, panting fitfully and waiting  _ almost _ patiently. How he would love to take his time stripping her out of this dress, caress every ounce of her with touch and tongue. But the circumstances help to make it more exciting - they only have so much time, and as much as he would like her naked, seeing her in such a state of dishevelled half-dress is alluring. 

His trousers come undone in his hands and the moment she hears the sounds of him doing so, she twitches. Just a little, not massively evidently, but enough for his eyes to catch.

"I'm sorry." she says quickly, and her knuckles are white from how hard they grip the edge of the table. "I'm being good. I'm trying."

He cannot help but smile at her commitment. If this is precedent for their future intimacy, he feels excited. If she is so willing to surrender herself to him, then he can only look forward to the things he might be able to do for her. Do  _ to  _ her. 

"I know you are, my love." he says, and runs a hand over her ass - squeezes the tender skin between his fingers. She moans, softly. "This time, there are no repercussions for misbehaviour." 

"This time?" she echoes, breathlessly. He catches her gaze as she glances back at him, and it isn't the uncertainty he feared he would see. It is excitement. 

She wants this again too. 

"Yes." he says, "This time."

"What about in the future?" she begins slowly, "What if I… Misbehave then?" 

"Then I will have to punish you." 

She bites her lip, and then settles her cheek back once more against the desk. Somehow he has cause to believe that is exactly what she wants, even without knowing what it entails. 

His cock is hard and almost hurting with how violently he wants her. He pulls on her hips, drags her down closer to the edge, and she gasps - followed by a small laugh of delight. Eagerly, she offers up her hips, widens her stance, tenses her arms against the desk. Her smalls roll down to her knees and he rocks in against her - his groan of relief is overshadowed by her sudden cry of joy. 

" _ Yes _ !" she cries, "Oh, yes! Solas, please-" and chokes on a gasp as he withdraws, and slams into her. 

He cannot find it in himself to scold her begging. In fact it only encourages him to take her faster, harder. Usually it is now that their love-making is slow and patient, tender and cautious. He had always been afraid of hurting her. But now, with the way her fingers scratch at the surface of the desk, and she mewls her name like the contented kitten she is, he cares very little for patience and caution. He fucks her hard without a care for gentleness, and she is  _ wicked  _ for goading him on, with her delicious squeals and how she squirms beneath his hand. 

He groans her name in approval, and tightens his grip on her hips. He may even leave bruises if he is not careful - as if careful is even on his mind. Her delicious heat around his cock is all he can think about; how tight her pussy feels and how her slickness makes it so easy to pound in and out of her. The wonderful noises that she makes are like a symphony to his ears, the sounds of utter bliss and simultaneous torment as he thrusts the cries from her lips. She is so beautifully helpless against her pleasure - pleasure he is giving her in such a wonderfully feral way. It has been so long since he had given in to his desires, and to know this is exactly what  _ she  _ wants as well.  _ Fenedhis _ , his pleasure is overwhelming. 

"I-I can't-  _ Solas _ !" 

She comes undone at the apex of her pleasure, desperately clinging to the edge of the desk and crying as her bliss surges through her. He is so close behind, so close, and the squeezing of her walls as her pleasure hits her encourages his own release faster - and then he's blinded by the whip of a violent climax, a guttural groan choking out of his throat. He barely manages to withdraw from her as it hits, covering the insides of her soft thighs with his release. 

He struggles to catch his breath, leaning heavy on the edges of the desk either side of her. Such rampant love-making is certainly more satisfying, but he had forgotten how taxing it felt. When his lungs no longer burn for breath, he rights himself; fastens his trousers and looks around for something he might use to tidy her up. In the end he tears a strip of fabric from the canvas covering the other furniture, and when he is done wiping away at her thighs, he burns it there and then. 

"Ariwyn?" he asks gently as he helps her back into some sort of orderly under-dress; tucking up her smalls and fastening her stockings in place once more. He draws her up from the desk and gazes upon her face, terrified he might see horror reflected back at him. 

But she is content. Perfectly, wonderfully content. She offers him a sleepy smile, and presses her head against his chest. 

"I understand why people usually do it in a bed now." she murmurs, and stifles a yawn. 

He chuckles, and winds his arms around her. He feels as if he could sleep for a week. Yet they cannot relax, not now - especially not here and not with the viper den they must return to. 

"Did I hurt you?" he asks, and squeezes her tighter against his chest. 

"No more than I wanted you to." she says with a laugh, "It felt good. I'm alright." 

"Good. I know that was… Different, to how we might usually do such a thing." 

"You can say that again. Creators, Solas." she whispers, still a little breathless. "You can boss me about anytime." 

A smile twitches onto his lips. "Perhaps I will take you up on that offer when we return to Skyhold." 

She withdraws from him and drifts to the door; her fingers tug him after her with a wicked little smile. 

"Ah yes, because you'll be able to resist sleeping with me again before we return to Skyhold." she says sarcastically, and he snorts. 

It is indeed shockingly difficult to resist such a woman. Especially the one that holds his heart in her hands. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have very little idea of what I'll do for chapter 3, but I absolutely can't leave this as a two-parter because ew, my clean record. Anyway- I'm off to go take a cold shower after editing this.


End file.
